


death doesn't discriminate (between the sinners and the saints)

by weasleyspotter



Series: 50 AUs Meme [3]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 07:01:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5447483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weasleyspotter/pseuds/weasleyspotter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy Blake expects to be chosen for the 74th Hunger Games. It's a mere matter of probability after all. Octavia is chosen instead, and it throws his whole world off balance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	death doesn't discriminate (between the sinners and the saints)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [monroeslittle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/monroeslittle/gifts), [always_a_queen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/always_a_queen/gifts).



> I'll admit, it took me like over a year to get this far in the fic. Somewhere around 8k words, I realized not only had I written so much with no end in sight, but this fic would have to be split into different parts. I should wait until I've written a little more. But it's my birthday and I've gotten into the habit of publishing things on my birthday and this is the closest thing to finished that I've got. 
> 
> Of course in a fandom like the the 100 and especially the Bellarke part already has multiple HG AUs. I started writing this way before I had read a lot of Bellarke fanfiction. Furthermore, I've never read any of those AUs. So this is my take on the idea, I've changed a few things, and so hopefully you'll give it a shot and possibly enjoy this. 
> 
> This fic is for monroeslittle and andyouweremine, who actually wanted me to write the thing, and have probably forgotten that I promised to write the thing by now, because it's been ages.

i.

He is four years old when his father passes away.

He’s in school when the explosion happens. His teacher has them all lined up by the door ready to go outside to play in the schoolyard, when suddenly the entire classroom starts to vibrate. Cups of broken crayons fall to the floor, the girl beside him lets out a shriek and clutches onto to him for stability. His teacher’s got a tight look on her face as she corrals them back into their chairs and ignores their questions. “Stay there,” she glares at each and every one of them until they nod back and she hurries out of the room.

When she comes back, she’s accompanied by other teachers and parents. And one by one the kids are scooped up from their chairs, until he’s the only one left.

His teacher eyes him carefully. “Where’s your mother, Bellamy?”

“I don’t know,” he says sheepishly, scuffling the heels of his shoes together. He’s embarrassed even though he's not really sure what’s going on.

She pursues her lips. “And your dad?”

“He’s in the mines.”

An unreadable expression crosses over her face, and her eyes grows wet with tears. “Oh Bellamy, I’m so sorry.”

And that’s how he finds out his father died.

ii.

When he’s younger, his favorite story is the story of how he was born.

His memories of his parents are fleeting at best, but the one thing that sticks is their bond. The way his parents moved around each other, it was like they were tethered together. Constantly gravitating towards each other, as if pulled together by some force he couldn’t see or describe.

It used to fill him with jealousy. The way they would sit by the pitiful fire his father would scrounge up in the evening, after he came back from the mines, still covered in soot, but too tired to clean up. Her mother would scoop him up in her arms. They’d sit in chairs side by side, barely touching, but still Bellamy felt like he was intruding on a private moment. The way they’d stare at each other, and speak in low soft tones, continuing some conversation that he could barely understand.

Sometimes he would just watch them. Fascinated by something he didn’t understand, something he wasn’t a part of. He'd fall asleep in his mother's arms, cocooned in her arms, lulled to sleep by the sound of his father's voice. And sometimes the neglect became too much. “Tell me about the day I was born.” He’d say as he pushed against his mother slightly to catch her attention, just in case his words weren't enough.

His mother would glance down at him in surprise, as if she had forgotten that he was there for a moment, even though he had been wrapped up in her arms. She’d exchange a soft glance with his father that was part exasperation and part affection. And for a moment they’d draw him into their circle of warmth.

“It was a cold night,” his mother would begin, tightening her arms around him, pulling him closer to her stomach like she was trying to draw him back in there. Trying to recreate the night. “The coldest ever,” she actually shivers for effect. Buoyed by the feeling of inclusion, Bellamy would eat up her every word and gesture.  

“You weren’t due for another week,” his father butts him, a silly grin on his face. “The healer swore so. But you were impatient.” He finishes with a proud grin, as this has been some sort of achievement on his part.

His mother rolls her eyes. “We had no idea what to do,” she admits, and she looks a bit uneasy as she continues. “You pretty much gave birth to yourself.” She glances down at him with an expression so full of love. Bellamy cuddles in closer to her on instinct.  

“I think you’re forgetting my involvement, sweetheart,” his father says with an easy grin. And just like that, her attention is drawn away. She glances away from him towards his father, a teasing remark on the tip of her tongue. And just like that, Bellamy fades into the background. The fire rages on, but the warmth is gone.

After his father dies, he never asks for the story of his birth again.

His mother doesn’t sit by the fire anymore either.

iii.

His mother does the best she can at first.

The Capitol doles out a mandatory payout once they ID his father’s body and it’s enough to get them through the worst of the winter as his mother bundles up in torn furs every day to wander through the streets of the coal district and then the merchant looking for a job. No one wants to hire an unskilled housewife; no one has the money or time to train her to be anything else.

Eventually a merchant woman takes pity on her and sends her home with some of her clothes that need to be hemmed, and his mother officially becomes a seamstress. It’s a poor market though, because no one in the coal district has enough money to spend on something as trivial as hemming, and no one in the merchant district wants to bring clothes to his mother in the Seam.

Every Saturday he’s sent out to the merchant part of town with a heavy woven basket and the promise not to come home until he fills the entire thing. It takes hours, and by the time he gets home, his feet are rubbed raw from the walking, but it’s his mother’s cheeks that are flushed red as she greets him at the door, hair tousled and clothing askew.

“Good boy,” she murmurs every time, tousling his curly dark hair as she takes the basket from his arms and ushers him back into the house.

He pretends not to hear the whispers. The neighbors like to gossip about the steady flow of guards that are warming his mother’s bed, and they love to do it when he’s within earshot. He doesn’t really understand what it means, but he knows enough to never come home early when his mother sends him out.

(And when he gets old enough to understand. He doesn’t ask any questions because he doesn’t want to understand.)

He knows that his mother’s got a jar hidden under the kitchen sink that’s overflowing with money and when he questions it, she flushes red and snaps that she’s saving it.

He knows enough that when she admits to him, a few years later, that he’s going to be an older brother, it’s not a happy thing.

iv.

His mother goes into labor on a cold winter night and she’s screaming so loud that Bellamy hovers in the doorway with his shoes half on, begging her to let him go fetch the Healer.

“No Bellamy,” his mother gasps, clutching her stomach, her stringy hair is damp with sweat and flies around her as she shakes with each contraction. “We can’t afford her.”

He thinks about the jar of money underneath the sink and wonders what his mother would do if he made a run for it. Surely it would be enough to convince the Healer to follow him. His mother could barely follow him; much less discipline him in her state. And afterwards, she would be so grateful, she wouldn’t think to punish him. And if she did, it would be worth it.

She screeches once more, and he nearly bolts at the sound.

“Bellamy,” she gasps out, pulling herself upright with great difficulty. “Get the blankets, the baby is coming.”

He scrambles for the pile of clean blankets on the chair nearby, and holds them out like his mother instructed him to.

She grunts as she crouches at the head of the bed, her hands hidden from view. In one movement, she pulls out a screaming bloody mess that looks vaguely baby shaped. She hands her off to him and slumps over on the bed.

He wraps the baby up in the blankets, feeling incredibly inadequate.

“You have a sister,” his mother says softly, a fond smile on her tired face.

He stares at the blanket with marvel. She's a scrunched up, wriggling mess, covered in chunks of something and blood. Her face looks like it's been squished together, and she's frowning. But underneath it all, he can see a real, live person. A sister.

“You should name her,” his mother offers.

He considers it for a moment. “Octavia,” he says finally, “From the book you read me the other night.”

His mother’s smile brightens, before she sags against the bed, her eyes closing softly. “You can’t let her cry Bellamy, the neighbors will get upset. Remember, your sister, your responsibility.”

“No Mom,” he rushes towards her side, nudging her with his shoulder. “You can’t sleep.”

“I’m so tired, Bell,” she moans, shifting away from him, before becoming unresponsive.

“I don’t know what to do,” he murmurs softly, knowing there’s no use in trying.

Octavia whines in his arms, looking up at him with big bright eyes.

“Okay,” he shushes, “Please please please don’t cry.” He places his finger in her mouth and she sucks on it, quieting instantly.

There’s something magical. Her eyes locked on his, sucking at his finger.

His sister, his responsibility.

v.

Things change after his sister is born.

Men stop coming to their doorstep, because it’s harder to screw his mother when there’s a wailing baby in the corner. They ration out the money from the jar, spending it only on what is needed. His mother and him do their parts though.

Once a week, his mother goes to Head Peacekeeper’s house, and he rounds the Hob every day after school asking anyone if they need his help in exchange for a few coins. More often than not, he’s turned away, but occasionally someone takes pity on him and sends him home with scraps.

His relationship with his mother remains complicated. He’s always been the one in the middle, trying to desperate draw her attention for a single moment. He knows that she resents him for the moments he tried to take away from his fathers, those brief moments of attention seeking acts, because those were one less moment with the love of her life.

And now with Octavia, they don’t have a moment to sit, a moment of peace. They burn through the money on baby clothes alone.

It doesn’t bother him, because Octavia is different from his father. Octavia doesn’t look at their mother like the world revolves around her. She looks at Bellamy. Her grin brightens every time he walks through the front door. Her first word is Bell.

And he loves it.

Because for the first time, he matters to someone.

vi.

The Hob only works as long as he has a child’s chubby face. As he grows older, pity fades. He’s not old enough to leave school and work in the mines. He’s taken out enough tessares to increase his odds of being reaped at least ten fold.

His trips into the forest happen gradually.

He doesn’t wake up one morning and decide to try his luck at hunting. It takes weeks of preparation and examination of the electric fence before he figures out the weak points. He then spends another week watching the same spot to make sure the pattern remains the same. Some hours on, most hours off.

His first trip is disastrous.  

When he gets back to the Hob, his jacket is torn to shreds and there’s a rash on his neck. He stumbles through the Hob trying to trade for the meager pile of berries he scavenged, but no one’s interested, because he can’t identify them.

(“It could be poison, boy,” the woman at the clothing stall shrieks at him, swatting his hand away from her. “Get away from here.”)

It’s Kane, the lone victor of District 12, that finally takes pity on him.

He thrusts a book into Bellamy’s hands and grabs the berries right out of Bellamy's hand, before he can protest.

“What’s this?” Bellamy glances at the book, wondering if he’s the one who is being shafted. He flips through it. It’s filled with pictures of different plants and animals.

“It’ll help you out there,” Kane says roughly, stuffing the berries into his mouth. He stands there chewing on them slowly, swallowing thickly.

He manages to look only looks slightly disappointed when nothing happens.

vii.

The woods bring a sense of freedom for him.

He takes to hunting easily. He learns how to make a flimsy bow from the book, because until he can actually start hunting, there’s no way for him to make any proper weapons. He spends hours running through the forest, stalking animals, and figuring out how to actually shoot the bow. 

(It turns out, the practice actually makes him quite good.)

viii.

He meets Clarke Griffin for the first time because of Octavia.

Octavia is sickly as a child. She’s got a cough that just won’t stop. His mother’s lips tighten every time Bellamy brings up the possibility of taking her to the Healer.

“We just can’t afford it, Bell.” She says quietly, ducking her head.

He doesn’t push the issue anymore.

(But Black Lung is spreading, and he’s afraid. He can’t lose Octavia, he needs to do something.)

He knows of Clarke. She is the daughter of the Healer and the Mayor, a merchant Princess through and through. But he’s never paid much attention to her, he’s never had to. She’s always run around with her Merchant friends in her privileged life. But if she could just get a message to her mother, she could be useful to Bellamy.

He corners her after class one day and drags her into an empty classroom. “I need your help,” he says quickly, before she can protest.

She cocks her head to the side curiously.

“My sister’s sick,” he says. “I need your mom to come and check her out.”

“And why don’t you ask my mother directly?” She sounds irritated but she’s got a passive expression on her face, like the conversation hasn’t thrown her, as if other students drag her into classrooms every day and demanding her to take messages to her mother.

For all his bravado, when it actually matters he can’t bring himself to face her. He ducks his head, shame burning his face. “Because I can’t afford to pay her.”

There’s a long beat of silence. “Seven in the evening,” Clarke says finally. She walks past him and pushes through the door.

ix.

Clarke is the one that shows up in the evening.

“I thought your mother was coming,” he frowns at her, blocking the doorway, keeping Octavia from view.

“My mother would agreed to your terms. But she has another house to visit tonight. Besides I know as much as she does,” Clarke says stiffly, and Bellamy doubts that’s true, just by the set of her jaw. Clarke slumps slightly, the resolve leaving her. “Look I’ve been trying to help people, and my mom’s been training me since I could walk. So please just let me see her.”

Octavia sighs behind him. “Let her through, Bell.”

Slowly he steps to the side, and Clarke strides past him, not even pausing to examine the interior of his house. He's only a bit taken back with how comfortable she seems with the Seam. He hovers over them, as Clarke makes Octavia open her mouth, cough, and then open her mouth again. “So,” he prompts as Clarke takes a step back from Octavia.

Clarke looks at him. “It’s not Black Lung.”

“Fuck,” he murmurs, running a hand through his hair. Relief and frustration course through him. “What is it then?”

“It’s the coal dust,” she says simply. “She needs to stay indoors as much as she can. Exposure to the coal dust is irritating her lungs and she’s having a bad reaction to it. You can help her cough with tea, my mother’s got a special brew. It’s got a bunch of herbs that you can toss in. I know you go into the Forest, you'll find them easily out there. It’ll ease her symptoms. Once a day should do.”

"The forest?" Bellamy glances at her hesitantly.

"Mrs. Kane likes to trade with me, I enjoy the strawberries." She comments with a shrug. "I can draw a picture of them if you'd like."

He nods shortly in agreement. “So, what in the meantime we have to lock her up?” Bellamy asks, his stomach churning at the thought.

“No way,” Octavia protests, shaking her head furiously.

“I’m saying that you should keep her inside as much as you can. It’s not Black Lung, but prolonged exposure to the coal dust,” Clarke trails off, looking unsure. “It could kill her.”

Octavia falls silent.

“Oh,” Bellamy says quietly.

“I should probably drop by every once and awhile to check up on her. But if you follow my advice,” Clarke says, glancing at the floor. “She’ll be fine.”

“Okay.” He swallows thickly and glances at Octavia. “What do I owe you?”

“What?” Clarke glances up at him in surprise. “Our agreement was—.”

“Our agreement was before you saved my sister’s life.” He says tightly. “What do you want in return?”

“Nothing,” she shakes her head furiously, backing towards the door. “Just take care of her.” She pushes open the door, and glances back at them for one last moment. “I’ll be back next week.”

He leaves a basket of strawberries for her tomorrow after school. It’s not even close to payment, but it’s a start.

x.

Even though Octavia hates him for trying to lock her up, she loves Clarke.

Clarke ends up coming around more than he expects, and whenever he questions it, Octavia's eyes flare up at him and she calmly reminds him that since he's locked her up, Clarke's the only company Octavia has.

And really, he thinks the anger is just a bit dramatic. But Octavia just glares at him when he suggests that. And when he suggests that maybe she try being angry at Clarke for a change, she sticks her tongue out at him. “I’d rather live with Clarke,” she says childishly, frowning at the ground.

He lets that one slide.

His mother isn’t fond of Clarke.

They run into each other eventually, because there are only so many times when his mother is out of the house and it wasn’t as if Bellamy could have kept Octavia confined to the house without his mother’s help. She’s grateful to Clarke, of course. But like Bellamy, she doesn’t like to owe Clarke.

Though Clarke continued to insist that no payment was necessary, it made his mother uneasy. There was an incident where his mother tried to shove money into Clarke's closed fist, until Bellamy intervened and told his mother to back off, leading his mother to storm away from the house and Clarke to avoid the place for a few weeks. Which led Octavia to be in a right foul mood, and Bellamy to bear the brunt of her anger, until he broke and begged Clarke to come back and visit Octavia, before O killed him.

After that, Clarke and his mother mostly tried to stay out of the others way.

And Bellamy?

He isn’t quite sure how he feels about Clarke.

She doesn’t keep her distance from Octavia. Not like he expects her to. It’s like his little sister is one of her merchant friends. They’re always giggling over some private joke or gossiping about classmates. And while it's irritating, he sort of feels happy to see Octavia happy.

He trusts her, though. She saved Octavia’s life.

xi.

It’s six months into their arrangement before Bellamy starts expecting Clarke to be with Octavia when he gets home. So when he gets home that day, and Clarke’s pacing the length of Octavia’s bed, it doesn’t even throw him for a second. What does is the way she strides up to him, fury poring out of every inch of her.

“Where were you?” She stops toe to toe with him, placing her hands on her hips.

Clarke’s standing in the center of the room, her hands on her hips, eyes boring into him. He glances around the room, for any sign of his mother, but she’s not there. Octavia’s lying on the bed, splayed out.

He hesitates for only a moment. “Hunting,” he says, slipping his game bag off his shoulder.

Clarke deflates slightly, but the fire doesn’t leave her eyes. “Octavia was here by herself.”

(Octavia’s cough was getting better, but Octavia had taken to sneaking out when no one else was around. And he couldn’t quite blame her for taking advantage of an opportunity. Still, he couldn’t risk her life for it either.)

“Shit,” he heads towards Octavia’s side, who is huddled in the corner, glaring down at her feet. “Did anything—?”

“She’s fine,” Clarke cuts him off. “But if something had happened,” she trails off, and he can fill in the blanks.

“My mother was supposed to be here,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. Violent thoughts churn in his head, he can’t help but be spiteful. What could have been so important that she would leave her sick daughter?

(He hadn’t missed her more frequent trips to Cray’s house.

Aurora had explained it casually. “I’m just trying to make you a peacekeeper, Bellamy. It’s better than the mines.”)

“Look,” Clarke draws his attention away from Octavia. She’s reassuring him now, probably sensing the change his mood. “She’s fine, Bellamy. And,” she hesitates for a moment. “Next time you need to go hunting, I could come and watch over her.”

He stiffens, resistance flooding his entire body. “You don’t need to do that.”

She shrugs easily, glancing away from him, uncomfortably. “It wouldn’t be a trouble. I like spending time with Octavia.”

“My mother and I will work something out,” he continues, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. “We don’t need your charity.”

Clarke’s eyes fly back to him, burning with a rage he’s never seen before. And he’s surprised because she usually takes his condescending in stride. “Charity? I’m not trying to pity you, Bellamy. I’m just trying to help you.”

It’s the first time she’s said his name to his face, and it takes him back. His name flows off her tongue so easily, he wonders for an absent moment if she’s said his name before. “Then what are you trying to do, Princess? Because I can’t believe that the Mayor’s daughter likes to spend her free time around District 12’s poorest.”

“Well maybe the Healer’s daughter does. Maybe I actually like to spend time with Octavia. Maybe I don’t see this,” she gestures around the room, “as a job or a charity. Maybe I look at it like something I actually enjoy.”

He scoffs. “I highly doubt that.”

Her face stiffens and she reaches for her pack on the table. She pulls it onto her back in one swift motion and marches towards the door. “Well believe it Bellamy, because I am not going anywhere.”

xii.

He leaves strawberries on her doorstep that night.

(It’s quickly becoming their thing.)

She doesn’t ask for an apology the next day.

xiii.

Nothing actually changes between him and Clarke.

He still looks at her with a strange confusion. He can’t wrap his head around the idea that she would actually want to spend time with Octavia, with him. But every day, she shows up at the door with a book for him or a fresh loaf of bread for his mother or a hair tie for Octavia.

It’s hard to swallow at first. But she picks up on his interest in history quickly and she brings him all sorts of books from her dad’s office. His desire for knowledge wins out in the end.

(Her smile is so bright the day he accidentally quotes one of the books to her.)

But then some things do change.

There is the way Clarke’s eyes linger on him occasionally. When she thinks he’s not looking, preoccupied by some task in front of him, he can feel the heat of her gaze prickling into his neck. He wants to turn around and meet that blazing gaze, but something holds him in place. Frozen, until he can feel her gaze lift.

(He’s not blind. He can see that she’s pretty. He’s two years older than her, but she’s still the prettiest girl in their school. With her curly blonde hair and brilliant blue eyes.

He also knows that Finn Collins, the butcher’s son, has his eyes on her. And he’s been making it increasingly clear how strong his feelings for Clarke are. Not that it would stop him, if he actually wanted her. But when she could have someone like Finn Collins, why the hell would she be looking at the poor boy from the coal district?)

One day after a particularly tiring hunt, he stumbles through the door, covered in sweat and dirt, his hair is clinging to his forehead, and his muscles ache. He barely had the energy to trade at the hob, and he let Murphy get away with a shitty trade that he knows he’s going to regret in the morning.

Octavia and Clarke are sitting in the bed. They look up at him in start, their giggles cut off in mid note. Octavia’s grin grows wider at the sight of him, while Clarke’s face drains of color and he just knows that they were talking about him.

“Hey Clarke,” Octavia nudges Clarke, a cheeky look on her face, “there’s Bellamy. You were asking about him earlier.”

Clarke’s face blushes bright red, and for the first time in his life, Bellamy does the gentlemanly thing.

He looks away.

xiv.

“I don’t approve,” his mother says that night, staring at Clarke’s retreating back.

“What are you talking about?” He mumbles, sorting through the rest of his game. His mind is still filled with the image of Clarke’s blushing face.

“You and that girl.” His mother turns towards him, a grimace on her face, as if she was speaking of something that was particularly distasteful.

Octavia grits her teeth. “Her name is Clarke.”

Bellamy shoots her a look, before looking back at his mother patiently. “What about me and Clarke?”

“She’s the Mayor’s daughter, Bellamy.” His mother says sternly. “If you don’t tread carefully. This could end very badly. She may run around like she can do whatever she wants. But you and I both know there are limits.”

Bellamy rolls his eyes. “There’s no need to worry. Clarke is just Octavia’s friend.”

“And your?” His mother prompts, her eyebrows raised with an unspoken question.

He thinks for a moment. “A partner,” he says finally. “She helps take care of Octavia and I value that. But if it weren’t for O, we’d have nothing to do with the other.”

It was the truth, but his mother doesn’t look particularly satisfied. “Bellamy,” she says shortly. “You’re going to be a peacekeeper, and if you don’t keep a distance from her, she could mess that up.”

He sits up, dropping the game in his hands. “That’s fine, because I’m not going to be a Peacekeeper.”

His mother’s nostrils flare in anger. “We are not having this argument again, Bellamy. You need to do this—.”

“Why?” Bellamy cuts her off. “So I can oppress my people, do the Capitol’s bidding, watch you sneak out of my coworker’s houses?”

“I do what I do to protect this family,” his mother says sternly. “And it’s time for you to protect us. Being a Peacekeeper will ensure that we have a much better life than most.”

“I could go work in the mines,” he threatens her. It’s a false threat, though, and she knows it. She knows that he couldn’t stand it in those dark tunnels, trapped in the same place that killed his father.

“This is our chance, Bell.” His mother says tiredly. “If you do this one thing for us, we’ll never have to worry about money or food again. We could move into a house away from the mines, one that won’t kill Octavia just for going outside. We could be a family again.”

He doubts that, but the image is hard to argue against.

His mother’s face softens. “You know she’ll never respect you, not as long as you live here.” She gestures around the room.

He flinches.

xv.

The day of his last reaping is the day of Octavia’s first reaping.

It’s poetic in a way.

His name is in the 42 times because of the tesserae, but Octavia’s name is only in there once because he can’t keep her out, but he can do this for her.

She’s a nervously bouncing from the bed to the stove and back to the bed when he gets back from his early morning hunt.

His mother eyes him. “Did you have to leave in the morning?” She says, a hint of disapproval in her voice.

He bits back the sarcastic comments that bubble up in his throat. She had gotten her way. When the reaping is over and he’s free of the Hunger Games, he’ll leave school and become a peacekeeper. Octavia’s getting sicker, and they need to leave the coal district.

(With his new job, he might even be able to afford Capitol medicine.)

Octavia rushes past him, gasping for air. He catches her mid stride and brings her to a halt. “Slow down there, O.” He says gently.

She looks up at him with wide eyes. “Is it time to go yet?”

She’s nervous but she won’t admit it. She’s terrified, and for good reason.

He smiles at her reassuringly. “Not yet.” He lifts up his game bag. “I brought something for you.” He fishes in the back and pulls out a loaf of bread. “Clarke sent it for you.”

(This time the mayor’s daughter was waiting for him at the back door. He silently hands over the strawberries, and this time she offers back something in return.

He’s about to refuse her, but she cuts him off. “It’s for Octavia,” she says quietly. “It’s her first reaping, and she’s probably scared. This is her favorite type of loaf.”

He hesitates only for a moment.

Before he leaves, she smiles at him. “May the odds be ever in your favor, Bellamy Blake.”)

Octavia clutches onto the bread and inhales deeply. She sighs. “It smells lovely.”

“Lovely,” he teases. “You sound like Clarke.”

“Clarke talks nice,” Octavia says defensively. “Besides you call her a Princess, so you must think she’s nice too.”

Bellamy freezes, heat rushing to his face. “Princess isn’t a compliment,” he admits. “But Clarke’s nice, I suppose,” he says offhandedly.

His mother gaze shoots to his face, but he determinedly ignores her.

Octavia’s eyes narrow. “I knew you liked her,” she crows, pumping her fist in the air.

He says nothing to correct her. It’s nice to see her smile for a bit.

xvi.

Octavia won’t let go.

She has to stand with the other twelve year olds, but she’s clutching onto his arm so tightly.

He crouches down to her height. “O,” he says quietly. “It’s going to be fine.”

“What if they pick me?” She whispers.

“They won’t,” he assures her, his throat tightening imperceptibly at the thought. He pushes it away violently and focuses on his sister’s round eyes, convincing himself that there’s no way they could pick her.  “Your name is only in there once.”

Octavia bites down on her lip and looks away from him. The thought that one slip is all it takes hangs heavily between them.

“We’re going to be fine,” he promises her, mussing up her hair in attempts to distract her; she always hated it when he did that. It works, she pulls away from him with a scowl and attempts to right her braids. “After this is over, we’ll go do something fun, okay?”

“Like getting a cake?” She asks hopefully.

He winces slightly; he’s got a handful of coins in his pocket, and definitely not enough to pay for a cake, but maybe one of those small ones, if the baker is in a good mood. The baker always had a soft spot for squirrels, maybe he could manage to sneak away after the reaping and catch a squirrel before they headed over. He swallows thickly and nods.

“Can Clarke come too?”

He follows her gaze to the stage where the mayor’s daughter is sitting in one of the chairs lining the stage. Her hair is piled up on top of her head in an elegant twist with a few loose curls framing her face, and her dress pressed tight against her, brand new he assumes. White with tiny flowers dotted all over it. Her back is pushed tightly against the chair and her expression is tight.

He hesitates.

“Please,” Octavia’s eyes widen.

“Fine,” he groans. “But you have to go stand in line and get through this first, okay?”

The glee fades from Octavia’s face, but she nods quickly.

“It’s going to be fine,” he reminds her, leading her to stand in line next to another frightened looking twelve year old. He waits until she nods before he goes to stand in line with the other eighteen year olds.

They’re all exchanging looks with one another. It’s a strange feeling to nearly be done with the reaping. To be old enough to understand what it means to have the most odds of being picked, but to also have the chance of being rid of the reaping for forever afterwards.

He keeps his eyes focused on the stage and prays that Octavia will make it through.

Doctor Tsing from the Capitol is a stern faced woman who gazes at the crowd impassively as the oh-so-familiar Capitol reel plays in the background explaining why the Hunger Games exists, as if any of them have forgotten.

“Let’s get started,” she says briskly, as soon as the reel cuts off. “Ladies first,” she says, dipping her hands into the big glass bowl.

Absently he wonders if she’s memorized a script because she says the same thing every year.

(He forgets to pray.)

“Octavia Blake,” she says, glancing at the crowd expectantly, as if Octavia’s going to raise her hand eagerly.

The floor falls out beneath his feet, and he nearly crumples to the floor. Moments earlier he had promised her that there was no way she would have been picked. She only had one slip.

“Octavia Blake,” Doctor Tsing, repeats, a bit more impatiently.

Octavia stumbles into the middle, and he thinks that someone shoved her forward. He wants to run forward and keep them from taking her. But his feet stay cemented to the floor. A silence falls over the crowd, because they’re realizing that Octavia Blake is just a twelve year old girl. And it’s always sad when twelve year olds are reaped.

The guards start towards his sister, intent on forcing her to the stage, and Bellamy stumbles forward on instinct.

“I volunteer.” A voice cuts through the haze, stopping him in his tracks. Even the guards turn to stare at the voice coming from the stage.

Clarke is standing up, her face white as a bed sheet, glancing down at Octavia with a transfixed face. She’s a few steps away from her chair, as if she had stumbled out of it.

And possibly for the first time in her life, Doctor Tsing is flustered.

The Healer, Clarke’s mother, stands. She’s clutching at Clarke’s hand, tugging her back. Her eyes are wide and she’s saying something that Bellamy can’t hear.

(Clarke’s name is in there the bare minimum. The chances of her being picked were slim to none. She threw that away for Octavia. He knows it has to be something like that.)

Clarke tugs her hand out of her mother’s and steps forward, teetering on the edge of the stage. “I volunteer,” she repeats, prompting Doctor Tsing into action.

“Our first volunteer,” she says slowly, glancing back at the Mayor, slumped over in his seat, a stricken look on his face.

Slowly the guards drop Octavia, and Doctor Tsing moves towards the fishbowl with boys’ names. Bellamy keeps his eyes focused on Clarke, trying to decipher her expressions, trying to thank her with his eyes.

(He forgets to think.)

“Bellamy Blake?” Doctor Tsing looks up at the crowd like it’s a question. Perhaps she’s wondering if someone will volunteer in his place.

(It’s a twisted blessing.)

It’s easy to move this time. It’s almost like he’s prepared for it. He steps forward, walking straight towards the stage; his eyes are focused on Clarke. Her eyes stare back at him, a horrified expression on her face. Surely she didn’t want this. He hears a shriek in the distance. It could be anyone. Octavia, his mother, one of the girls he went to school with. As he gets closer to the front, Octavia attempts to toss herself into him, but a Peacekeeper holds her back.

He pays her no mind, there’s time for that later.

Doctor Tsing eyes him up as he bounds onto the stage. “Bellamy Blake?” She repeats. “Any relation to Octavia Blake?”

“She’s my sister,” he says simply, a numb sensation settling into his stomach.

Doctor Tsing’s face breaks into a grin. “What a coincidence?” She turns back to the crowd, grabbing both of their hands in her own. “Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present your tributes for the seventy fourth Hunger Games. Clarke Griffin and Bellamy Blake.”

Silence follows.

Doctor Tsing huffs slightly and drops their hands. “Always district 12,” she mumbles under her breath as she ushers them back into the Capitol building.

xvii.

“You need to fight, Bellamy.” His mother says fiercely, pushing into the room.

Octavia’s trailing behind her, an anguished look on her face. And all he can think about is how difficult this must be for her.

“It’s going to be difficult,” his mother places a hand under his chin and forces him to look at her. She softens. “I know that you cared about the girl, but she’s now in the way of you coming home to us.”

Octavia looks stricken.

Bellamy inhales deeply. “When I’m gone,” he begins slowly, “you can trade my stuff at the Hob for food. There are quite a few people that owe me favors there. They will help you out.”

“What are you talking about?” His mother’s hand drops from his face.

“Don’t let Octavia take out a tesserae,” he says fiercely. “No matter what.”

“Bellamy,” his mother says insistently, “listen to what I’m saying.”

“Promise me,” he raises his voice, clasping her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. “Do what you have to do.”

“I promise,” she says shakily, taking a step back from him. Her eyes are wide with fear, and she’s staring at him like she’s really seeing him for the first time.

“Bell,” Octavia hurtles herself into his arms, distracting him. “I don’t want you to die.”

He loves her so fiercely in that moment. How she doesn’t try and beg him to come back. There’s no point. Even if he didn’t try to save Clarke, the competition could always get him. He’s not a Career, not born with the luxury of learning how to kill from a young age. He’s only had the forest, and killing a person is completely different from killing a person.

“I love you, O,” he whispers into her ear. “Be good.” He pulls away from her, just as the door opens and the Peacekeepers stride in.

“Your time is up,” they growl at his mother.

She nervously backs towards the door, her eyes are still on him. Octavia doesn’t move away from him. She’s still clinging onto his arms, her grip tightening as the Peacekeeper tuts impatiently.

“That’s enough,” he growls, stepping forward to wrench Octavia away from him.

“Hey,” he calls out angrily, taking a step towards Octavia. But the Peacekeeper drops Octavia’s hand and nudges her towards the door. “O,” he calls out to her. She glances back at him, tears swimming in her eyes. “It’s going to be fine.”

“Thanks big brother,” she smiles brokenly before the door slams in her face.

xviii.

When they reach the train, he risks a glance at her.

Her eyes are red rimmed, like she had just been crying profusely, but her face is dry. She stares straight ahead, her mouth set in a determined line. Her fists clench tightly and he recognizes the nervous gesture. He knows he should avert his gaze, he should focus on the train, on the people around him. Maybe he should look for one last glimpse of his sister.

Instead, he reaches out and grasps one of her fist. He pries open her hand and laces her fingers through his own.

“It’s going to be okay,” he assures her in a low voice, averting his gaze, just as she turns towards him in surprise.

He can feel her gaze burning into the back of his head as he pulls her along towards the train.

xix.

Dinner is an uncomfortable affair.

Doctor Tsing speaks in polite short phrases, but she’s the only one that attempts to keep up a conversation. Clarke humors her by responding to the questions directed at both of them with a short response and hums at Tsing’s off handed comments.

Bellamy doesn’t even try to keep the displeasure off his face. But even he cracks a little at the food on the table. Baskets filled to the brim with steaming rolls, still bubbling pots of soup, vegetables coated in gooey sauces and roasted meats. His stomach rumbles at the sight of it all, but he manages to pace himself.

His eyes fix on a plate of chicken drumsticks, and his stomach curdles.

Clarke follows his gaze and smiles bitterly at him. “Octavia would have loved it, wouldn’t she?”

He glances at her, wondering if she’s regretting volunteering for his sister.

“You’ll just have to make it for her when you get back,” she says finally, grabbing one of the drumsticks and biting into it before he can ask her what she means.

Tsing smiles at him broadly. “How nice to have two tributes with manners this time? Isn’t it Kane?”

Kane sits at the end of the table, nursing a glass of dark amber liquid. He grunts and rolls his eyes, before taking another sip of the liquid.

Out of a fit of rebellion, Bellamy slurps his soup extra loudly, making sure to reach for the soup every time Tsing opened her mouth. Eventually the woman stood up with an angry frown and excused herself, but not before suggesting they watch the mandatory viewing of the Reaping.

For a moment, Bellamy is tempted to ignore Tsing’s suggestions and retreat to his own room. He already knows he’s been reaped, who cares about the rest of them?

But Kane stands up, drink in hand and gestures towards the doorway, “Shall we?” He asks gruffly, downing the rest of drinks in one gulp, slamming the empty glass back on the table.

Clarke jumps at the noise and Bellamy sits up straighter. “Stop it,” he hisses at Kane. “You’re scaring her.”

“Good,” Kane says, his eyes fixed on Clarke’s wide eyes. “She needs a bit of scaring if she has any hope of surviving.”

Bellamy rolls his eyes and pushes himself off the chair. “You’re drunk.”

“Maybe we should get a capitol attendant to take him back to his room,” Clarke follows in his lead, standing up, looking at Kane hesitantly.

“It’s fine,” Bellamy sighs, “I’ll make sure he gets back to his room. You should go watch the reaping, one of us should be prepared for this thing.” He slips and arm around Kane and hauls him upright, yet Clarke still lingers in the doorway, looking at him hesitantly. “Go,” he urges her. “I’ll be fine, and,” he adjusts his grip on Kane, “I’ll join you when I’m done with him.”

She nods hesitantly, backing out the door.

Bellamy waits until her footsteps fade away entirely before he drops Kane and turns on him. Kane stumbles forward, clutching his head. “We need to talk.”  Bellamy says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Can’t it wait until the morning?” Kane mumbles, stumbling towards the wall. He pushes himself upright, leaning heavily on the wall for support.

“No,” he shakes his head, “because in the morning you’ll be nursing a hangover, and I want you to know that it will be your last one.”

“What?” Kane looks up at him with bleary eyes, confusion clouding them.

“You have to stop drinking if you’re going to mentor us.”  
  
Kane snorts. “I’m not sure if you know how this work, but neither of us get a choice in this situation.”

“Exactly,” Bellamy nods, “except Clarke. Clarke had a choice and she volunteered for my sister, so we are going to get her out of this thing.”

Kane’s eyes dim and pity clouds his face, he rubs a tired hand over his face and looks up at Bellamy. “Look kid, I know it’s tough, and she seems like a good girl, but she’s got no chance of making it out of that arena alive.” Kane eyes him up and down. “Now you, that’s a different story. You’re a survivor. You know what it takes to survive.”

“I’m not asking you to help me save her,” Bellamy says roughly, dragging Kane a little harder as they head towards his room.

“You’re ordering me?” Kane scoffs, pulling out of Bellamy’s hold. “Tell me this, what’s her skill? What does she bring into the arena that no one else has?”

Bellamy shakes his head. “She’s different,” he protests.

“Everyone’s different, yet hundreds of kids have died.” Kane presses against one of the walls and a panel slides open revealing a room much like his own. “Think about what makes her any different than the others, then get back to me.”

xx.

He’s tempted to stumble in the vague direction of his room after that. He’s not quite sure which room is his, but he’s sure if he wanders into enough rooms, he’ll eventually find his way back.

But he promised to watch the Reaping with Clarke, and when her wide eyes surfaces in his mind, he can’t stand the thought of disappointing her.

It takes him awhile to find the viewing room. It’s a wide dark room, only illuminated by the bright TV. Clarke is sitting cross-legged on the couch opposite to the TV, a notepad in her lap, meticulously taking notes. The light radiates around her, her skin taking on a strange bluish tint. Blonde curls fall in front of her face as she leans over and scribbles something on the pad, but she quickly brushes it back with an impatient hand.

He steps forward, announcing himself. “Is that District 11?”

She looks up at him suddenly, and then at the TV. “Uh, yes,” she looks down at her notepad and flips to a different page. “I’ve been taking notes on the others. I think I have all their names down.”

But his eyes are fixed on the screen where the District 11 escort pulls out the female tribute’s name and smiles into the mic that Charlotte Glass is this year’s lucky tribute, and the camera pans to the crowd that parts to make way for a tiny girl that couldn’t be older than Octavia. But unlike Octavia, no one volunteers to take her place. She stands on the stage, the wind whistling beside her.

The boy from District Eleven is a hulking large boy named Wells Jaha. He stares out at the crowd impassively, as Charlotte quivered beside him.

Bellamy reaches out and grabs the remote from beside Clarke and shuts the monitor off, before it can switch to District Twelve, not eager to relive the day’s events.

Clarke flips her notebook shut, and hands it over to him. “Here,” she says softly, “You’re going to need this. It’s got all of the tributes in it, their names, and anything I thought would important to know about them.”

He pushes the book back towards her with a slight shake of his head. “Don’t, Clarke.” He runs a shaky hand through her hair.

Her hand with the book drops quickly and she looks down at her lap unsurely. She glances back at him, “Did you get Kane to his room?”

Bellamy nods simply.

Clarke sighs and heaves herself off the couch. “I think I’ll turn in,” she says heading towards the door. “It’s been a long day.”

He huffs in agreement, but he can’t let her leave, not yet. “Wait,” he says sharply, stopping her in her tracks. “Thank you,” he says, a pleading note wrenches his voice. “You didn’t have to volunteer, but you did and Octavia—.”

“It’s fine,” she brushes off and slumps against the doorframe.

“No,” he says sharply, and her back straightens almost instantly. “You saved O’s life,” his voice cracks. Then he pauses and composes himself. “Again,” he says almost ruefully. When would he stop owing Clarke Griffin, he wondered absently. As soon as he died for her, he supposes.

“Octavia’s my friend,” she says simply, her eyes alight with something he can’t identify. “My only friend,” she amends with a shrug. “I would do anything for her.” She sighs. “I just didn’t think you would be reaped as well.”

“Talk about bad luck,” he scoffs.

She pauses for a moment, half turned towards the door. Then she gives a bitter laugh. “I don’t want to die.”

His heart aches at her words and he can’t help but feel responsible. “Clarke,” he says slowly, trailing off. What could he say to make it better? It would be okay? He would sacrifice himself to save her? None of it made him feel any better.

“I don’t regret volunteering for Octavia,” she says earnestly, shaking her head slightly, eyes fixated on the ground. “If I had to, I’d do it again. But I don’t want to die.” Her voice breaks on the last word, and her hand swipes at her face suspiciously.

He takes a step towards her, still unsure of what to say, but she darts out of his reach. “You don’t have to pity me,” she says, her voice taking on an edge he’s never heard before.

“I’m not pitying you,” he tries, but it falls flat on his lips.

“I know you think you owe me something, because I volunteered for Octavia. But believe it or not, I care about her too. And what I did, it had nothing to do with you.”

“Clarke,” his voice is sterner this time, almost like he’s reprimanding her.

She sighs, the fight leaving her as quickly as it came. “I’m sorry, I’m just tired.”

“And scared,” he says softly.

“That too,” she shrugs at him. “Goodnight Bellamy.”

He doesn’t say anything as she walks away, feeling a pit in his stomach. It comes to him so suddenly he almost feels like an idiot for not thinking of it earlier.

xxi.

He corners Kane in the morning. There are bags under his eyes and he’s blearily blinking at Bellamy like he doesn’t recognize him.

“I know how I’m going to save Clarke.” Bellamy says fiercely. “And you’re going to help me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment and kudos if you enjoyed it, please, it's my Birthday! Thank you very much. And there will be more parts, I am not sure how many yet, so please subscribe as well.


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